Alien with Matches

May I confess to the glorious feeling that
many speak of?
But how little they understand the art of
parting from what cannot be reached.


Outside, a stirring of power and honor, the
dirt from soles erased against the sills, the
boxes snapped shut,
I burn with an accounting itch between my legs.


By filling two berries with hardness,
giving them a foretaste of entrance—
I, a slave of the quarry,
corrode the girl with my touch.


In the poses of defiantly cynical
women, to uncover the frenzy of stories,
to become in the taste of something boldly strange,
a generous plot with surprising things........


I do not regret myself fiercely
and pray you remember this,
apply the measure of the statue
to the scepter of a quarried slave.